“Wait. I—I do need to talk to you about this whole…thing.” I wave between us.
I need another second of not being over there. A second to unclench my fists and center myself and other calming shit Orok preached at me before I left the apartment.
Maybe it’ll kick in.
Anytime now.
I note the color staining Elethior’s cheeks. Damn, how tipsy is he?
“There is nothing,” he snaps. “Remember? We’re presenting individual projects.”
“Yeah.” I scratch the back of my neck. “About that. I’ve had a change of heart—”
“Elethior.” His cousin has one eyebrow lifted, a finger tapping on the bar.
“Behave yourself.” Elethior leans in, smelling of that rich wine he had. “I’m serious. Pretend you have at least basic people skills.”
“Fuck off,” I hiss back at him, but I paste on a smile as we move down the bar.
His cousin’s group peels away at some unspoken command, so we have her full attention. Up close, she’s older than Elethior, half elven like he is, with shorter pointed ears than a full elf would have. She’s definitely related, though, with the same dark eyes, but her hair is so bright it almost hurts to look at. Her sleek scarlet dress is as expertly crafted as Elethior’s suit, her ears, neck, and fingers set with glitzy jewels. Money, money, blah blah blah; I should text Crescentia to get her protestors over here.
I hold out my hand. “Sebastian Walsh. I’m sure Elethior’s told you all about me.”
She smiles amicably. “Arasne Tourael. And no, he hasn’t.”
I’m momentarily struck when I realize I don’t know where she fits in the Tourael family tree. What branch is she a part of? Weapons manufacturing? Military?
A thought settles like a stone in my gut.
Is she a part of Camp Merethyl? I don’t recognize her. Gods, my dad would love that—if Elethior has direct connections to that camp and my making good with himcouldsmooth over the ripples I caused in dropping out.
My dad being happy annoys me, so I cling to that emotion. Annoyance. Frustration.Anger. There’s nothing else churning beneath my surface, nothing else trying to drown me.
“You’re a donor?” I ask, purposefully fishing.
“I am,” she says through that expert amicable smile. “I also keep an eye out for up-and-coming young wizards who might find a home in any of our research and development properties.”
I choke down relief. The Tourael family is massive; they all deal with magic defense, but theydon’tall have their hands in Camp Merethyl. Many of them do totally innocent things, like design weapons and fund dangerous spell research.
Arasne lets a pause linger, clearly expecting me to fawn over her, which is likely the usual reaction upon learning she has hiring power at high-paying jobs.
I give a one-shouldered shrug. “Neat-o. I’ve got a job lined up with the Clawstar Foundation.”
She tenses, presumably at the mention of a nonprofit in direct opposition with what she’s recruiting for. But she recovers and says, “Congratulations,” with no inflection.
Elethior flags the bartender. Another glass of red wine is put in front of him and he grabs it.
“You drinking that Do Men de la Something-Candy?” I ask.
He and Arasne both gawk at me.
“Pardon?” she questions.
I smile innocently. “Some fancy wine Elethior was going on about.”
He sets the glass on the bar and pinches his nose. “Domaine de la Romanée-Conti.”
“That’show that last word is pronounced?” I paste on fake shock. “Do Men Dally with Romanwhat? Sounds like—” I make a circle with one hand and stick my finger through it repeatedly. “But whaddya expect of the Romans, ya know?”
